


Brightstorm

by Bow_Ties_Are_Cool



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bow_Ties_Are_Cool/pseuds/Bow_Ties_Are_Cool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know his name. Was there ever a name so apt? It proclaims his bastardy, his high birth, and the turmoil he brings with him."<br/>A short story about Edric's flight from Dragonstone and his exploits in Lys</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Running

He stalked towards her, grass rustling underfoot. “Then comes… THE DRAGON! The fearsome beast with huge wings and a hundred teeth.” He drew himself up to his full height and spread his arms out. “Dark as the night, belching forth black flames.”

“Aegon’s Balerion! The Black Dread,” proclaimed the princess.

He laughed. “Precicely, coz. And if you don’t run…” he leaned over to whisper in her ear, “…he’ll roast you alive.” All of a sudden he clamped his hands together with a loud clap, mimicking the dragon’s jaws.

She giggled and darted off through the garden, weaving between the tall trees. He smiled contentedly and then set off after her. Through the shrubs and flowerbeds they raced, the monster and the maiden. Scampering ahead of him, the princess was quick. But the dragon was catching up; the bastard boy’s size and strength gave him the edge in this chase. Wild roses reached out to grab at him and snag on his clothes, but he evaded them all with draconine agility. He ducked under a low branch and slowed a little to prolong the pursuit. The dragon roared menacingly, which provoked a scream of delight and spurred the princess on through the undergrowth. Edric squelched though a deep boggy patch full of cranberry bushes, and the sticky ooze threatened to leak over into his boots. But he cared not and charged on regardless. Turning left at a statue of some Targaryen or other, he brought the game to an end. Closing the gap between them, he caught hold of Shireen’s arm, and they both went caroming into a hedge.

Laughing, they picked themselves up and sat on the grass by a path. The whole garden was filled with the scent of pine and Edric thought it was quite pleasant except for the earthy smell emanating from his boots. He wiped them on a patch of grass, cleaning off most of the mud and moss. Reaching behind him, he picked a few cranberries and offered a handful to Shireen, who was panting merrily. They regained their breath and the princess pulled a few twigs from his hair.

“I thought I outran you through the roses back there,” she said hopefully.

“You almost did, princess,” he lied.

She smiled at him, her face shining with excitement. “Can we play hide-the-treasure next?”

“I’d be delighted to, coz.” It was a childish game but Shireen loved it so. “How about we–”

“The shadows come to dance, my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord.” The lyrics drifted through the trees, a little way off, accompanied by much clanging and jingling. Edric fell silent at the fool’s singing. Tentatively he looked at Shireen, whose usual sadness had begun to return.

“Can we move?” she asked. “I can’t stand it when he sings that horrible song.”

Edric found the mottled fool disconcerting sometimes as well. But he dared not show it. He took her hand and they shifted along the path until Patchface’s voice faded away amongst the trees.

“Patches’ songs give me nightmares sometimes,” Shireen confided in a low voice. “He’s often so sweet and funny but then he goes and scares me like that. Sometimes I hear people talking about…” She paused, slightly nervous. “Princesses are supposed to be brave and strong like Daena, or fierce and fearless like Rhaenys. People say that–”

“Who cares what they say?” He squeezed her hand and smiled. “We Baratheons are known for our strength, especially my father. And _Ours is the Fury_ , after all.” He moved round to kneel in front of Shireen. She looked back at him with eyes just like his, brilliant blue like the sea after a storm. “You’re the most wonderful princess I’ve ever met.”

“But, Edric, I’m the _only_ princess you’ve met.”

“Not true,” he said with a sly smile, “I saw Joffrey once, with his pouty lips and pretty hair.”

She stifled a chuckle but then they both burst out laughing. They sat sharing japes and stories and picking their way through the cranberries until at last Edric said, “Now, my princess, will you do me the honour of accompanying me back to the Sea Dragon Tower? Pylos will get his chain all in a twist if I’m late for my lesson.”

She hugged him and took his arm, beaming from ear to ear.

 

* * *

 

 

When it came to sums, Maester Pylos was in his element. He revelled in discussions of the Qarthene scholar, Khayyam, and his work on geometry as well as the movement of the stars. Today the young maester was taking Edric through Nasyr Tusi’s study of circles and motion and, although he didn’t mind the subject, it did tend to become a little tedious.

“So, you see, Tusi’s observation in fact built upon…” Pylos explained enthusiastically.

Jotting down some notes absent-mindedly, Edric's thoughts began to wonder. He imagined how much more interesting his lessons might be if Pylos had earned a link in warcraft.

“…And other Volantene scholars have attempted to prove that…” continued the maester.

Edric would much rather be resuming their study of King Daeron’s _Conquest of Dorne_ , rich with tales of gore and gallantry. Daeron’s war against the Dornish was certainly a fascinating read but it paled in comparison to his father’s rebellion. King Robert was the Demon of the Trident, and the victor of three battles all fought in one day.

Edric snapped back to the present when Lord Davos Seaworth pushed open the door. He had a haggard look about him, Edric noticed. His brown hair was thinning and his beard peppered with grey. Behind came Ser Andrew Estermont, hovering tentatively by the doorway.

The maester broke off mid-ramble. “That will be enough for now, Edric.”

Edric was thoroughly puzzled by the intrusion, as well as Pylos’ sudden stop. Remembering his courtesies, he said, “Lord Davos, Ser Andrew. We were doing sums.”

Ser Andrew smiled. “I hated sums when I was your age, coz.”

“I don’t mind them so much. I like history best, though. It’s full of tales.”

“Edric,” said Maester Pylos, “run and get your cloak now. You’re to go with Lord Davos.”

“I am?” Edric got to his feet. “Where are we going?” He recalled Devan Seaworth chanting around the fires with the other red fanatics. “I won’t go pray to the Lord of Light,” he said stubbornly. “I am a Warrior’s man, like my father.”

“We know.” Lord Davos’ weathered face studied him for a moment. “Come lad, we must not dawdle.”

Edric donned his woolen cloak and Maester Pylos helped him with the fastenings. Peering out from under the large hood, Edric asked, “Are you coming with us, Maester?”

“No.” Pylos touched the chain of many metals he wore about his neck. “My place is here on Dragonstone. Go with Lord Davos now, and do as he says. He is the King’s Hand, remember. What did I tell you about the King’s Hand?”

It was an easy question and Edric answered it confidently. “The Hand speaks with the king’s voice.” Of course, Lord Davos didn’t look much like a King’s Hand dressed in that simple brown and green mantle. But he hadn’t looked much like a knight either.

The young maester smiled. “That’s so. Go now.”

Outside the maester’s chambers, a broad-chested man with straw blond hair waited by the steps. He wore a grubby white surcoat emblazoned with nine yellow trefoils on a black cross. _House Gower_. _So this man must be Ser Gerald_ , Edric deduced. Back at Storm’s End, Maester Jurne had taken care to teach Edric all the sigils of the Stormlands. Ser Gerald Gower fell into step with Ser Andrew as the four of them made their descent. The two flanking knights made Edric a little uneasy. “Where are we going, Lord Davos?” he asked.

“To the water. A ship awaits you.”

He stopped suddenly. “A ship?” _Why would I be going anywhere on a ship?_

“One of Salladhor Saan’s. Salla is a good friend of mine.”

That was hardly a helpful response. The name Salla was unknown to him, but it didn’t sound Westerosi.

“I shall go with you, Cousin,” Ser Andrew assured him. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“I am not  _frightened_ ,” Edric said indignantly. “Only... is Shireen coming too?”

“No,” the Hand answered. “The princess must remain here with her father and mother.”

“I have to see her then,” Edric explained. “To say my farewells. Otherwise she’ll be sad.” Shireen had been so happy today, as had he. Edric knew that he could not leave without seeing her first.

“There is no time,” Davos said. “I will tell the princess that you were thinking of her. And you can write her, when you get where you’re going.”

 _And where is that?_ he wondered, _Is the Onion Knight really speaking for the king? I know he doesn’t look much like a King’s Hand but…_ Edric frowned. “Are you sure I must go? Why should my uncle send me from Dragonstone? Did I displease him? I never meant to.” His uncle had a habit of looking displeased, especially around Edric. He set his face defiantly. “I want to see King Stannis.”

Ser Andrew and Ser Gerald exchanged a look. “There’s no time for that, Cousin,” Ser Andrew said.

 _He’s making excuses_ , Edric knew. “I want to see him!” he insisted, louder this time.

Lord Davos loomed over him. “He does not want to see you. I am his Hand; I speak with his voice. Must I go to the king and tell him that you would not do as you were told? Do you know how angry that will make him? Have you ever seen your uncle angry?” He pulled off his glove and showed him the shortened fingers. “I have.”

“He should not have done that,” Edric mumbled. Lord Davos had smuggled fish and onions to the Storm’s End garrison and saved them all from starvation. Uncle Stannis repaid such bravery and skill by shortening his saviour’s fingers. Edric did not understand it, nor why the Onion Knight admired the king so. But, reluctantly, he let Davos take him by the hand and draw him down the steps.

The Bastard of Nightsong joined them at the cellar door. Ser Rolland Storm had a pox-scarred face, hidden partly by his beard; stained and scorched nightingales were scattered across his chest. No one said a word as they walked in shadow across the yard. Dragonstone. The fortress certainly lived up to its name. Scaly beasts were carved into the very walls, soaring and battling on the stone, encircled by writhing fire. It was all good fun playing the monster with Shireen, yet he thanked the gods that dragons no longer existed. As they came through an archway, it wasn’t just the dragons that disturbed him any more. Even the statues eyed him hungrily. In the black of night the Targaryens of old appeared harsh and angular and they had a frightful beauty about them. Edric pulled on his hood, hiding his face from the dark creatures around him.

The five of them stopped at the postern gate and Edric hung back while Davos spoke to two men standing just ahead of him. He could not catch their conversation, or the comment that made the King’s Hand chuckle. Then Davos went on one knee before him, face now level with Edric’s. “I must leave you now,” he said. “There’s a boat waiting, to row you out to a galley. Then it’s off across the sea. You are Robert’s son, so I know you will be brave, no matter what happens.”

“I will. Only...” He hesitated. _Shireen_.

“Think of this as an adventure, my lord.” Davos seemed jovial all of a sudden. It didn’t suit him. “It’s the start of your life’s great adventure. May the Warrior defend you.”

“And may the Father judge you justly, Lord Davos.” Something told him that the Hand would be in need of divine favour in the coming hours.

Sadness gripped him. He was going away from home again, leaving behind all those he cared for and all those who cared for him. Nevertheless, he trudged forward and they soon reached the rowboat. Edric didn’t recognize the man in it, or his sigil – seven golden stars on white. _Probably some minor house from the Crownlands_ , Edric mused. His companions helped him into the little boat and, as they rowed out across the water, he looked up to the window of Shireen’s chambers. _Wave to me, princess_ , he pleaded. _Come to the window; look out across the water. Wave to me, and don’t be sad_. Yet there was no movement within. The last two people he saw were on Dragonstone’s shoreline – the tall bearded knight, who was a Storm just like him, and the unlikely lord with the ordinary face.


	2. The Pirate's Abode

Edric stood on the prow of the ship, wind tugging eagerly at his hair and clothes. He could not look back; he dare not. Home was behind, and Shireen. He must keep his eyes ahead, towards the eastern horizon and the adventure that the Onion Lord had promised.

Ser Andrew Estermont stumbled onto the deck, holding a couple of wooden sparring swords. "Are you sure this is a good idea, coz? The water's a bit choppy," he warned.

"It'll be good practice for my balance," replied Edric. _The basis of a strong defence is being sure on your feet_ , Storm’s End’s master-at-arms had told him. Several months ago the man had him hopping between rocks down by the shore. But that time was gone. Edric continued, "When Ser Loras Tyrell was a squire at Storm's End he practiced in the yard every day and now he's one of the best tourney knights in the realm."

Ser Andrew stroked his beard pensively, not yet persuaded. Edric had started to grow a little fuzz himself at the start of their voyage; he was almost a man grown. But he promptly shaved it off upon recalling how Devan Seaworth's 'beard' made him look like a duckling.

"Let the boy practice," called Ser Gerald from up by the helm.

“Aye,” agreed Lewys.

Edric flicked a lock of hair from his eyes. “If you’re not feeling up to the task, cousin… you could always teach me to dance instead,” he laughed.

This seemed to sway him. Andrew smiled, shrugged, and threw over a sword. “Just don’t topple overboard.”

Satisfied at getting his own way, Edric took up his position. He placed his feet carefully, light on his toes, to counteract the rocking of the ship. The cousins tested each other's defences; wooden swords clacked in anticipation. It was the knight who struck first, an upward cut that Edric managed to deflect just past his ear. He shifted his stance and took a swipe at Andrew’s side. His cousin parried. Then another strike, faster this time. Back and forth they went, neither one landing a hit. But then, with a deft flick of the wrist, Estermont aimed a jab at his shoulder and, though Edric leant back to avoid it, the edge just grazed his tunic.

“Touché, ser,” he laughed as he sprang back, rather enjoying the fight. They readied themselves again for the next bout. _Careful, lad_ , came the voice of the master-at-arms. _Keep your defence up_. And he did, although Andrew was driving him back towards the prow in long, quick strides. The galley lurched. _Balance, boy, balance_. Edric was ready for it; his legs absorbed the shock and he kept both feet planted firmly. The same could not be said for Andrew Estermont. The knight with the green turtle on his chest flailed wildly and clung to the rigging. Andrew’s instability had exposed himself to attack and Edric took full advantage of it. But with every strike Andrew recomposed himself a little more, a little more. Now the older cousin regained a strong defence, beating aside strike after strike. A low swipe almost caught Edric off-guard, but his cousin had no time to follow up on it, for at that moment a large wave crashed against the hull. The galley heaved in response, creaking and groaning underfoot, the rigging straining against the force of the sea. Salty spray leapt over the sides to spatter down on the two combatants. Edric felt his foot slip out from under him. He tried to reposition his weight, keeping to the footwork his master-at-arms had taught him. But he slipped again. Performing a clumsy jig, Edric twisted, landing both feet back on the deck. Now steady, he lunged at Ser Andrew, who was still reeling from the jolt and the soaking. The blow caught him square in the chest and knocked the man even more off-balance; Estermont fell back into the mast with a thud. The old master-at-arms had never been one to shower praise on his students but Edric thought he would have been proud all the same.

Propping himself up with the wooden sword, Ser Andrew said, "Perhaps we should hold off practice until we find some solid ground.”

Edric acquiesced with a smile. "But tomorrow you must show me that counter riposte you used to land the hit on my shoulder," he said, patting the bruise.

A bark of laughter came from Gerald Gower. "Has Ser Turtle had enough?"

Andrew scowled at him through shaggy eyebrows still dripping with seawater.

Edric left them to their light-hearted feud and sauntered off to the cabin. When he arrived, the room was empty, the others having gone up top. Edric stripped off his linen tunic and pulled on a clean one. Over this he donned the woolen cloak he had worn the night he left Dragonstone. Stuffing the old tunic inside, he took his sack of clothes back down to the hold to join the rest of his companions’ belongings. He sighed, thinking of what he’d left behind at Storm’s End – the warhammer and sable cloak that were treasured nameday gifts from his father. And then there was Galladon, his pony, black as night with a white diamond on his forehead. Often he would take Galladon and go riding along the coast of Shipbreaker Bay. Now all he had left in the world was what had been stuffed in this sack. He bit back a stinging in his eyes.

A shout came up from somewhere outside, announcing that their destination was in sight. Edric rushed out onto the deck and, looking off to starboard, he saw it. The fair city of Lys clung to the rocks as the sea crashed around it, throwing white spray high into the air. She was one of Valyria’s daughters and the blood of the dragonlords still ran strong in the veins of the Lyseni. Lovely Lys was as deadly as she was beautiful and, though the walls glistened in the sunlight, men were known to lose themselves there, never to be found.

Water lapped playfully against the side of the ship as they sailed on into the harbour, flanked on either side by grand golden pillars. Galleys and cogs, all with striped hulls and bright sails, were being loaded and unloaded, casks rolled along the quayside, and a swarming multitude of merchants and citizens went about their business. Yet this spectacular sight was nothing compared to the aroma that greeted him as Edric inhaled deeply. The air was warm and laced with a heavy scent – a cocktail of strange spices and floral perfume, the tang of wine that hit the back of his throat, and much else that he could not place. _Perhaps it will be an adventure after all._

 

* * *

 

 

“Valar morghulis,” she said. The woman was standing with several others, all waiting patiently on the quayside when Edric and his guardians disembarked. In the dying afternoon light her hair shone like spun silver, tied in a sleek plait that was draped over one shoulder.

So utterly captivating was she that Ser Andrew seemed to forget himself for a moment, before replying politely, “Valar dohaeris,” and then, “May I… er… ask your name, my lady?” Edric noticed that the woman’s smile did not quite reach her eyes – eyes that were not bright and keen like his lonely princess, but a harsh icy blue.

“This one’s name is Faye, ser knight,” she said with a graceful bow. Eric cast his gaze to the collar at her neck, white gold set with small sapphires. _She’s a slave_. The realisation shocked him, though he knew it was foolish. Slaves were numerous in the Free Cities and he should expect to meet many more.

“I greet you on behalf of the Prince of the Narrow Sea, Salladhor Saan,” said Faye in the Common Tongue, with only the slightest hint of a Lyseni accent, “and welcome you graciously to our city.” Then she swept off along the quay, loose layers of silk flowing out behind her. The other slaves hung back to collect Edric’s and his companions’ belongings from the ship and then the party strode on through the crowds.

It was a short walk to the manse, barely ten minutes. Edric had never met Salladhor Saan, who he had only recently learned was a self-styled pirate prince of Lys, but the man was clearly not short of coin; and he evidently liked to impress. Bright red brick walls stood high, surrounding the manse on all four sides. Two Unsullied stood sentry by the large ebony doors reinforced with iron. They moved to one side at the party’s approach, uncrossing their spears as they did so, spiked caps winking in the sunlight. Edric strolled forward into a lush garden, which surrounded the central building, and then passed through yet another set of doors into the manse itself. Two serving men, each with a silver collar, held aside a shimmering lavender curtain as he stepped inside. The entrance hallway was airy and bright. A grand marble staircase spiralled up and around, and many a corridor led off at the sides, the entrances to which were all covered by silken curtains of different colours and patterns.

At the foot of the steps a svelte, handsome young man bowed low to greet them. Standing tall again, he pushed an oiled curl back behind his ear and gestured for the new arrivals to follow him. “I, Caspio, welcome you all on behalf of our illustrious host, Prince Salladhor of the most proud and noble Saan family. This way to your rooms, dear guests,” he said in honeyed tones.

Off they went. The serving men and women who were carrying their things fell into step behind them. None of the slaves spoke, except Caspio, who talked continuously about Salladhor Saan's ancestors and the notable architectural features of the manse. Aside from his loud and grandiose nattering, the slaves moved so quietly, so smoothly, that they seemed ethereal; the only noises Edric heard from behind him were the swishing of silk, the soft clinking of collars, the patter of delicate slippers on the floor.

Caspio, still providing a running commentary, led them down a meandering corridor tiled with swirling patterns and murals, colourful to the point of garishness. Through an archway they went and crossed a courtyard, in the centre of which was a marble fountain. As Edric drew closer to it he noticed petals floating lazily around in the rose-scented water. Over in the corner a bare-chested gardener was preening one of the flowerbeds. Seeing the inhabitants all dressed in loose flowing silks, Edric realised that his thicker Westerosi garments, which had been ideal for the time he spent on Dragonstone, were ill suited to the muggy Lyseni clime. _Yet more things I must abandon. I suppose I’ll need a new wardrobe now_. He smiled in spite of himself, imagining the look of glee that would have crossed his Uncle Renly’s face at the words ‘new wardrobe’.

Their suite was on the very top floor. It had one large central room that led off to the sleeping quarters. From the walls were hung exquisite tapestries. A large Myrish rug lay on the floor surrounded by plush chairs and mounds of pillows. A cyvasse set was laid out on the middle table, one side alabaster and the other onyx. It was a finery that Edric had never experienced. Once the slaves had bowed their way out of the room, his companions set about helping themselves to wine and olives. Edric took a spot by the gilded window and looked out across the city. It was all strange and unknown and he was reminded of another time he’d sat by a window to gaze at the view with trepidation.

He had spied his uncles’ rendezvous from the drum tower of Storm’s End. In a grove of felled trees the Stark banner waited and Edric had wondered if the Northmen had made common cause with his Uncle Renly. But in the end it wouldn’t have mattered. At one point during the parlay Edric thought it might come to blows. He recalled how Renly slid his hand inside his satin cloak and how Stannis reached for the hilt of his sword, making as if to draw the blade. Edric had his face pressed against the glass, trying to make out what the figures were doing. But Renly only withdrew a peach. Edric had grinned at that, remembering the man’s penchant for japes. He had seen very little of his favourite uncle ever since Renly had taken a seat on the Small Council and so he enjoyed the young lord’s visits all the more. Of course Stannis did eventually draw his sword, angered by Renly’s casual smiles; it shone with a brilliant light and cast dancing shadows all around the grove. Lady Stark’s horse backed away in fright and Renly’s blue knight moved between the two brothers, blade in hand. _One of the Rainbow Guard_ , Edric assumed, though he never found out the knight’s name. The parlay seemed to end rather abruptly, with Stannis turning his horse around and galloping away, followed closely by the red woman, covered head to toe in deep scarlet robes.

Renly died that night and Ser Cortnay shortly after. Edric had felt as if the darkness had been watching him, as if the shadow he had cast in the candlelight was no longer his own. Not to mention the rumours. Hushed whispers spoke of living shadows – assassins conjured by the sorceress to work the magic of her red god.

 _And there it is,_  he thought. The temple of R’hllor rose up like a great fire burning in the middle of the city. It loomed high over the streets, a swirling mass of marble and stone, domed towers, massive buttresses carved like flames, and all tied together with a winding maze of steps and bridges. Pillars and spires twisted skyward in so many shades of red and gold and orange; the colours merged together into a shimmering glare. Edric looked away and joined the first few of his companions who were making their way down the stairs to the dining hall accompanied, as always, by a troupe of collared servants.

 

* * *

 

 

“How long do we have to be here?” complained Omer Blackberry, pushing the food around his plate. “Everything’s so spicy it tastes like it’s on fire.”

“The Onion Lord wasn’t clear about the nature of our return, assuming there is to be one…” began Ser Andrew.

“Assuming?” Omer looked downcast. “So we stay here for the rest of our lives?”

“No, just for the rest of the priestess’ life,” laughed Ser Gerald grimly. Edric held back a shudder. He’d managed to weasel out the truth of their departure from his guardians shortly after leaving Dragonstone. _Burned as an offering to the red god_. It was, ironically, a chilling thought. Well, he spent most of his time trying not to think about it.

“The Crone in her wisdom knows our fate. May the Mother be merciful and the Father be just,” said Ser Triston, which seemed to bring and end to the discussion. Gerald rolled his eyes at the pious knight’s comment but Triston seemed not to notice.

The rest of the evening passed with Edric and his companions in fairly good spirits in spite of Omer’s dissatisfaction. Much food was eaten and much wine was consumed, which left them all feeling exceedingly merry as they headed back up to their chambers. But, for Edric, the mood would not last one look out of the window. The red temple stood even more confidently now that night had fallen, illuminated by countless torches. A sinister glow radiated from deep down inside.

As he climbed into bed he tried to ignore the singing and chanting that drifted through the air; _prayers to bring back the dawn_ , Edric knew, for he had heard them many times on Dragonstone. He screwed his eyes shut and tiredness took him.

 

He was dressed in his uncle’s forest green armour when the crimson shroud sought to engulf him. As he struggled against it, the fabric tightened and seared through the steel plate to scorch the skin beneath. Then he saw that another figure was wrapped in its folds, small and struggling. _Shireen_. With black antlers he gouged and tore at the burning shroud but the razor-sharp shreds merely flapped around to cut him, hot blood running thick and fast. A shadowy hand closed around his throat, holding him in an iron grip, yet still he fought to save the princess.

“Please, no! Don’t do this! PLEASE!” screamed Shireen as the scarlet shroud whipped up around her and snow melted away at her feet. He could no longer see her for all the steam and smoke billowing in front of his face, stinging his eyes. _Princess_. _Cousin_. He cried out in desperation… And awoke. His skin was slippery with sweat. The taste of salt was in his mouth. He felt the icy streaks of tears on his face; he wiped them off with the back of his hand and went back to sleep.


	3. May The Father Judge You Justly

The street was loud with revelling festivalgoers; celebrations would continue for days in honour of the Lyseni love goddess. The smell of spiced meat and heady wine drifted in from outside and set Edric’s stomach to rumbling. Through a crack in the canvas curtains a hundred hues danced merrily, streamers and banners thrown about by the crowds. But, as much as he wished to join the festivities, Edric sat confined in the shade amidst a pile of velvet cushions. Opposite him was poised the slave woman who had greeted him off the galley when he first arrived in Lys: _Faye_. Her chin was worn high as always and pearls hung from her ears like shimmering water droplets; at her neck was the collar – silver and blue. Edric thought he’d get used to being surrounded by slaves. He told himself that it was common practice here and that the serving men and women at Saan’s manse live a life of comparative luxury. The way that Faye swanned about indicated that she was more than satisfied with her position. But there was a disquieting feeling he could not shake, seeing these people who were the property of another. It was so contrary, opposed to the ideals instilled in him by Maester Jurne and Ser Cortnay…

He pushed the thought aside and returned his attention to the lesson at hand. Soon after coming to stay in Salladhor Saan’s residence, Edric had taken up learning the Low Valyrian dialect of Lys. He saw Faye every day for an hour or so to be taught more words and phrases – the southern varieties of Valyrian spoken in Lys and Myr and Tyrosh as well as High Valyrian, of which he knew a little from his education at Storm’s End. Edric found the lessons interesting enough, though Faye was poor company. While strikingly beautiful, she had a temperament that was cold and aloof, and not at all conducive to enjoying the hours stuck cooped up inside with such raucous carousing just outside the window.

Lazily he turned a feather quill in between his fingers. On the page were scrawled some glyphs and their translations. Edric set about reciting the phrases, with Faye correcting him sharply. High Valyrian was wonderful on the tongue, he mused, nectarous and rich; the Lyseni dialect was more florid by comparison.

A polite knock interrupted their study. The man entered and Faye interpreted his message.

“There is news that you must hear, my lord,” she said coolly after the man had finished. “Your companions await you downstairs.”

 _What news could this be?_ Her tone set him ever so slightly on edge. Hesitantly, he followed her out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Edric’s companions sat around a large dark table that seemed to draw all the light from the room. So somber was the air that he could almost taste the grief. _No. No, whatever it is I don’t want to hear it_. Step by arduous step he urged himself forward and took his place next to Ser Gerald. A windswept messenger was stood at the head of the table and repeated himself once Edric was seated.

It was nauseating, like his stomach had been churned to mush. An icy cold swept over him and all the colour drained from his face. _Executed at White Harbor… Not the Onion Lord. It can’t be_. Gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white, he could barely think – could barely breathe.

“Edric?” someone said.

When had the manse become so gaudy? The once gorgeous murals now leered at him, a sickening myriad of colour. _It shouldn’t hurt this much. I hardly knew the man, I hardly knew him_.

“Edric?” someone said again.

Then the rage boiled up inside. _Uncle Stannis. He was away from the capital when Father died. His priestess murdered Renly and Cortnay. He dragged me from my home to that godsforsaken spit of land. He would have had the red woman burn me on a pyre if not for Lord Davos. And now the Onion Lord has been executed in some Northern waste._ He envisioned that ordinary, kindly face covered in tar with a spike for a neck. It was too much. Before anyone could call him back, he stormed from the room in a black fury. 

He tore through the grounds of the manse, the exotic flora drooping down to claw and pull at his clothes. A spidery shrub scraped his face as he rounded a corner; Edric ignored the stinging. But with each fuming stride his temper began to subside. Following his feet, he came to the garden below the suite he shared with his guardians. Ser Triston had assembled a small shrine at which to pray to the Seven. Lewys, it turned out, was rather good with a paintbrush and had drawn images of the gods on pieces of wood. Edric never had a septon to educate him in the mysteries of the Faith and he’d only bothered with prayers for strength, courage, justice. He didn’t know any for grief. _I am Warrior’s man, after all._  Kneeling down, he lit one of the candles.

“May the Father judge you justly, Lord Davos,” he whispered. But the words sounded hollow now. A tear of wax slid down the candle as the flickering flame danced on its perch, twirling and spinning – taunting him, Edric realized. He snuffed it out angrily, cursing the fire.

Edric had hoped to find a family on Dragonstone, his last one having been so suddenly torn away from him. All he had was Shireen. _And all she had was me_. He played the courteous guest for his uncle, though he received nothing but stern looks and scowls in return. Queen Selyse had barely even acknowledged his existence.  _I did nothing to deserve such scorn._

 _Not what you did_ , came a little voice in his head, _but what you are. Bastard_. He screwed up his eyes and willed that the thought disappear back into the recesses of his mind where he kept it locked away.

“Cousin?” Andrew walked up behind him.

Edric collected himself, determined to show no weakness on his part. “I’m alright,” he said when Ser Andrew enquired how he was. But the lie did not seem to satisfy his cousin, who looked at him with a concerned expression. Estermont handed him a handkerchief, indicating the small cut below his ear.

“It’s a strange place where even the plants are out to get you,” he chuckled, kneeling down beside a painting of the Smith.

Edric dabbed at the stinging cut in silence.

“His Grace needed the Northmen for his cause,” Andrew began by way of explanation, as if this would be a sufficient reason for the Onion Lord’s death. “The Hand was very brave to undertake such a dangerous mission, but you heard that in order to ransom his heir Lord Wyman Manderly–”

“Stannis,” he spat. “That’s why he’s dead. Ser Cortnay and Uncle Renly are his fault too.” Estermont seemed a little taken aback by the ferocity with which Edric spoke. “I would have joined them in death had I remained on Dragonstone.”

“That was, er…” Andrew didn’t seem to have an answer to that.

“He should have gone himself to White Harbor or sent a proper messenger. He’s not a true king.”

“Edric! He is the rightful lord of the Seven Kingdoms, by all the laws of gods and men.” Andrew glared at him and Edric knew instantly that he had overstepped his mark. “His Grace is not to blame for Renly’s folly. I know you liked him – we all did… But it was treason, pure and simple. I squired for King Stannis when I was a boy. He is a good man, with an iron sense of justice and honour. To rule is both his right and his duty.”

Edric had always thought that Lord Davos’ loyalty to the king was misplaced yet here was another man with the same level of staunch devotion. All further protest caught in his throat and he said nothing in reply to his cousin. They sat in silence for a few moments until Andrew spoke.

“I was thinking that we should see the festival before it ends,” he said awkwardly, but with a tenderness too. “Would you like that?”

Edric brushed the hair from his eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Yes. I would very much, coz.”

 

* * *

 

 

The festival was truly fantastic. Street-sellers strolled around peddling meat and wine. Music rang out loud over the rowdy crowds. When the main procession passed by, Edric had to stand on an empty crate to get a good look. Though the day was growing late, the partying gave no sign of letting up. The pillow houses along the street were bustling with custom – more so than usual. Omer fought his way to Edric’s side, clutching some grilled fish dripping with fragrant juices, and offered him a chunk. He wore a wide grin on his face, evidently having cheered up since his earlier disappointment with Lys. Lewys was enjoying the company of a buxom dark-haired woman, with one hand up her skirts and the other sloshing around a bottle of mead. The three knights were sitting outside a tavern sharing japes and pepperwine. Edric lounged against a brightly striped wall and watched the people go by.

A trio of young girls skipped past giggling all the while, five or six children trailed after their mother like a line of ducklings, a gilded sedan was lugged closer with two elegantly-clad men sat inside. One looked Lyseni with his curled and perfumed hair and the other had a dyed moustache in the style of the Tyroshi. As the sedan chair drew closer Edric could hear them chatting in something close to High Valyrian. Straining his ear to listen, Edric could vaguely discern some talk of the slave trade, a coming war, the Archon of Tyrosh, and a troupe of sellswords known as the Golden Company. He also caught the phrase Mīrīno Dāria, which he knew meant the ‘Queen of Meereen’. _They’re talking about the last Targaryen, Rhaegar’s sister_. He was reminded of the menacing statues on Dragonstone and wondered if she too had the same fearsome beauty. But then the sedan chair passed out of earshot and Edric was back to watching the merrymakers go past his spot against the wall.

 

* * *

The sky was a wash of pale blue, fading into gold and then a velvety orange on the horizon. Slipping through an ivory curtain into the fresh evening air, Edric found himself in one of the larger garden courtyards; this one was a maze of elegant vines and dappled sunlight. He crunched along the gravel path until he heard hushed voices up ahead. They were talking animatedly and with thick accents, too quick to translate their whole conversation. The washerwomen cut their chatter short when Edric neared them. One was shorter and rounder, with silvery grey hair. The other was an older Naathi woman who looked at him passively through rich golden eyes.

“Good evening,” he greeted them with a smile. “My name is Edric.” His broken Valyrian really was terrible but he knew that he must practice. He was just finding the right words to ask them about their conversation when suddenly they lowered their eyes to the floor and took up their work. Edric spun around to see Caspio prancing towards him, a wide grin plastered to his face.

“Come now, ladies, there is work to be done,” he said genially in Common Tongue; they scurried off. “Pay no heed to the gossiping of washerwomen. Idle chatter it is, nothing more.” Caspio steered him into the adjoining courtyard, more open than the first.

“I thought I’d practice my Valyrian,” explained Edric. “I managed to grasp a little of what they said. Some of it reminded me of the festival – all that talk of the Targaryen.”

“Ah, the beautiful Dragon Queen, just so.”

“Well, I was wondering… I’ve heard the phrase a couple of times now… What does Belmo Pryjatys mean?”

Caspio paused. “One Queen Daenerys’ titles, for she has many of them. Breaker of Chains it means.”

“Then she _is_ freeing the people of Slaver’s Bay.” It was intriguing. A fat little boy of seven ruled the Iron Throne but Daenerys was far in the east freeing slaves. He had always assumed the Targaryens to be either cruel or mad; from the little he knew of her, she seemed neither.

“Indeed yes. The young queen is causing quite a stir.”

“It is a noble cause.” The words sounded strange to him, praising the Mad King’s daughter.

“Nobility of cause is no excuse for acting irresponsibly, I am thinking,” Caspio sighed, utterly blasé.

“Is it irresponsible to give people the freedom they deserve?” he said raising an eyebrow.

“What are the slaves to do with their freedom, I am asking? They cannot eat it or take shelter in it or clothe themselves with it. They would have been better off without her interference.” Caspio waved a hand carelessly through the air. He smiled at Edric and readjusted his gold satin waistcoat. “But I am not cut out for such philosophy; I am merely running the Prince’s household. Faye is the scholar among us.”

 _Scholar?_ “I thought she was a…” Edric began, trying to find the right word. “…A courtesan.”

Caspio laughed. “Delicately put, my lord. She was indeed raised as a pleasure slave, but her first master took her within the Black Walls to serve some academics in Volantis. Now she is trained in love _and_ learning.”

 _Caspio evidently has no interest in discussing the Targaryen_. Yet, while Edric allowed the conversation to move onto other matters, his curiosity would not leave him. The stone beasts of Dragonstone had scared him once, casting cold angular shadows across gloomy courtyards. He was reminded too of playing Monsters and Maidens with Shireen, racing through Aegon’s garden. But to see a real dragon, like in the stories, the fascination now outweighed the fear. He resolved to ask Faye during their next lesson.

 

And he did just that.

 

“There’s talk of dragons. Real ones, three of them.”

“Stories travel quickly,” she hummed. “But that is all they are – wild tales told by sailors and mummers."

"But they were real once. They could be again."

"In Volantis there are entire books devoted to the subject, reams and reams of dusty parchment on dragonlore. None of it does anybody any good.”

Undaunted, Edric went on. “They say the Targaryen girl burned her way through city after city, freeing slaves as she went.” Was that admiration in his voice? No, surely not.

“ _They_ say…? Where did you hear that?” asked Faye as she looked up from writing down phrases for him to read. He thought there was something sinister about the sickly sweetness of her words.

“I, er, heard it at the festival,” he said as casually as he could. It wasn’t a complete lie and, besides, he didn’t want to get the washerwomen in trouble. He was unsure of what Faye was capable of doing to potentially mutinous slaves.

But she didn’t question him further about the source of these rumours. “They call her a khaleesi, Queen of Meereen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains. That little girl has more titles than she can count. The Lyseni economy will crumble if she continues. What right does she have to impose on such ancient cultures?”

“The right of conquest, it would seem,” he suggested with a grin. Faye readjusted her collar in irritation. Before she could speak, he interjected proudly, “We have no slaves in Westeros."

She scoffed at his words. “The beggars and smallfolk? Free, yes. Yet here I sit in jewels and fine silks – a prince’s manse for my roof, not some dirty hedge – dining on smooth wine and succulent veal, not meat scraps and scavenged berries. By striking the chains from the people of Meereen, this dragon queen has subjected them to violence and poverty. No longer do their masters keep them safe. No longer are their families provided for. Many are worse off for their liberty.”

 _No, that can’t be right_. _How could anyone wish to be enslaved?_ “No man wants to be owned like chattel, however tough it is.”

“Have you ever known hardship, my lord?” she asked. But he didn’t answer. “Perhaps you would not like it as much as you think. Perhaps you too, along with many, would prefer a collar over starvation.”

“Never.” Her smug eloquence was really starting to annoy him. “It is better to live dangerously as a freedman than safely as a slave.”

“Well that is what the girl-queen is bringing to Meereen. Slaver’s Bay will not have peace while she persists. And the conflict will surely spread to Volantis, to Lys, to Tyrosh, to Myr.”

“Some wars need to be fought. My father opposed the Mad King in his rebellion; he had to. Rhaegar stole away his Lady Lyanna and Aerys II burned men alive because he enjoyed it. Westeros is well rid of them.”

“And imagine if he had succeeded in eliminating the entire Targaryen dynasty. This Daenerys, the Mad King’s own daughter, would not be alive to wage her war of emancipation. Does she deserve death along with her family?”

“Well, I hardly think… It’s just that… She, er…” He fell silent.

Her smile was one of condescension. “Perhaps you are better suited to sparring with swords instead of words, my lord.”

Edric slammed his book closed, finally losing patience. “My father was a great king and brave in battle. Nothing changes that.”

“My lord is right, of course.” She inclined her head ever so lightly. “Shall we continue with High Valyrian grammar or will that be all for our lesson today?”

“Yes, fine,” he hissed back at her as he left.

 

In the crisp night air the bastard boy stood vigil by a makeshift shrine, barefoot, sparring sword laid on the grass. All was still but for the fireflies drifting lazily around the garden and in the heavy black blanket overhead pinpricks of starlight shone through. Prayers were whispered for strength, for courage, for justice, and now one for grief.


End file.
